


The Stuff of Fiction

by hisDarling



Category: Thor (Movies), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisDarling/pseuds/hisDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aria possesses a special gift- she is a Reader- someone who has the ability to transport herself into works and art- be it books, paintings, movies, musicals, movies, mythologies, etc.  Her power isn't harmful unless she changes the plot, so things get interesting as she meets certain characters that make her life a little more complex.  What happens, though, when she discovers that someone else who can do what she can? Can she separate the fictional from the non-fictional? Where is the line? Is there even such a line?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stuff of Fiction

The wind whipped around my face, rain stinging my eyes. I let out a quick cough in protest and trudged forward. My umbrella couldn’t help me now. The rain raced underneath it’s black sheath and seared my cheeks in rage.

  
My eyes locked onto my goal- the small coffee shop at the end of the street. Although I’d traveled this way many times (even in these conditions, mind you), today seemed to be different. The golden glow from the coffee shop only enticed me to pick up my speed. It seemed forever away, though this go around. I let out a puff of air I’d been holding in my chest and made a beeline to be under the overhang so I could acquire some respite from the fit Mother Nature was having with London.

  
Oh, London. My least favorite place, and my most favorite place in the world. Before I made the move to this rainy, dreary, hub of literary and artistic action, I had been warned about the weather- about how terrible it was. How could such a place of charm and beauty have such shitty weather?

  
I clearly didn't listen to the advice I was given. Here I was- a mere fifteen meters from my goal destination- glorious caffeinated beverages and musty book smells. I sighed, bracing myself for the torrential downpour I was about to endure. I trudged my way towards the door and grinned as I flung it open, victoriously.

Immediate warmth overwhelmed my senses. A soft, golden glow from the lamps around the bookshelves cast an immediate sense of comfort in my soul. The strong, delicious smell of coffee that raced through my lungs was accompanied with the slight fragrance of tea and perfect perfume of books that lined the shelves. I was home.

  
I placed my umbrella in the small tin cylinder where it could dry off before going back out into the tropical storm brewing outside. I gazed up to the counter, meeting the gaze of one of the baristas, who had come to know me by name, and by my order.

  
“Hello, Aria. I noticed you were coming inside. You looked as though you were in battle,” she snorted, her thin lips forming a snarky smile. I rolled my eyes and gazed at the menu.

  
“And you didn't think to help me, Shelley?” I muttered mindlessly, trying to decide what exactly I wanted to drink.

  
“It was all too entertaining to watch. Why are you looking at the menu? You already know what you want.” She prodded at me, knowing exactly what I was thinking. I groaned.

  
“You’re right. I do,” I chuckled, eying the chocolate croissant next to her before beginning, “I’ll have a latte-” “with a spritz of hazelnut syrup, chocolate syrup, and two shots of espresso,” Shelley interrupted me, with a twinkle in her eye.

  
“Two shots of espresso? Do I look sick or tired?” I smiled to myself. Shelley shrugged.

  
“No, I just see that your friend is here, so you might need to stay awake to keep up with all the banter you two tend to do when you meet up here,” she gave me an all-knowing glance, accompanied by a smirk. I gazed over my shoulder towards the tables lined next to the bookshelves, my emerald eyes meeting a pair of turquoise ones. I smiled and turned around. Shelley gave me a grin. I handed her money for my latte, already knowing how much it cost.

  
“It’ll be right out, Aria,” she said, bringing the espresso machine to life. I walked over towards the bookshelves, placing my backpack down besides the emerald velvet love seat. My eyes met that oceanic gaze again, and a smile cracked on my lips. I broke the gaze and walked to the counter where not only my latte was waiting, but a small brown bag.

  
“Here’s a token for the brave warrior, facing the dreaded storms to come drink coffee,” Shelley announced heroically. I took the bag and gazed into it. It was the chocolate croissant. My stomach growled as it’s sweet fragrance drifted up out of the bag.

  
“Thank you, Shelley! How did you know?” I grinned, almost thrusting the bag back into her hands.

  
“No, please. It’s on the house. And how couldn't I see it? When you want something, its quite obvious on your face,” Shelley retorted, rejecting my offer to return the bag. I blushed, knowing her statement to be true. “Well, thats nice to know. Thank you, again,” I stuttered as I walked past the tables to the emerald love seat. I placed my coffee on the table before me and opened that bag again, allowing the fresh scent of chocolatey pastry to wash over my senses. It was divine. I reached down into my backpack, whipping out my precious cargo- some literature. Which world did I long to experience today? I had a few choices- _Pride and Prejudice_ , _Wuthering Heights_ , and _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. I wasn't in the mood to experience too much death, so I placed Withering Heights away in it’s safe haven. Was I feeling some iambic pentameter? I wasn't too-

  
“You know, friends usually greet one another, Aria,” a smooth baritone voice rang from in front of me. I pulled my turning thoughts from these two works and up to the source. I chuckled, already knowing whose voice it was-it was so velvety, so proper, so familiar- a lot like the love seat I was encamped on for the moment.

  
“You looked entranced in your work. I didn't want to bother you, Thomas,” I teased, not looking up from my two books in my lap. I felt the man sit beside me.

  
“You? Bother me? Please. I was just enjoying a leisurely stroll through some Shakespeare when you walked inside. And you know how I feel about you calling me by my full name when you are clearly not my student,” he said, not skipping a syllable. I smirked, knowing one of my friend’s pet peeves.

  
I steeled myself to look at him, but was not prepared for what I saw. The warm glow from the lamps cast an almost sparkling light in those stunning, oceanic eyes. His beautiful porcelain skin was flushed, clearly from the warmth of the cafe, and those cheekbones-oh god, those cheekbones- looked crisp and noble along with his other sharp features. His eyes were trained on my lap, gazing to the two books that were sprawled across it. His long, slender fingers caressed his thin, pink lips and defined jaw, demonstrating his deep train of thought. I found myself studying his beautiful face when his eyes met mine. My stomach flipped for a moment, until I controlled it.

  
“Can’t decide which world you want experience next?” He mumbled, his eyes staying locked on mine. I gulped, feeling a sort of tension in the air.

  
“Well, yes. I know which one you’ll tell me to read next,” I stumbled over my words. Good god. Why did a graduate student have this much sway over me? He nodded towards the Shakespeare.

  
“You already know? Well, for me, I’d easily say Shakespeare. But for you, I think some Austen might do you some good. Or it may influence you to act out further from your position in society,” he gave a throaty laugh. I felt blood rush up to my cheeks.

  
“Elizabeth wasn't just trying to step out of society- she was just trying to live how she wanted. Society was constricting her. She wasn’t trying to be different-it just worked that way!” I exclaimed, feeling a rush of emotions on my throat.

  
“Woah, Aria. I didn't mean to start a war. Elizabeth is just a character- calm down. I mean, it’s not like you and Elizabeth Bennet are on a first name basis,” Tom chuckled once more. I stayed silent, sipping my coffee, in fear I’d say anything stupid to the graduate student/close friend of mine who sat before me. Why were you so damn attractive? And right all the time? Just a character?

  
“Well?” he implored. I gazed at him from behind my latte. His eyes stayed fixated on mine, making this whole silent treatment really difficult for me. Just as I was about to speak, Tom opened his mouth.

  
“I’m sorry, I didn't mean that. I know how you feel about your literature and characters, as do I. I just feel like Elizabeth Bennet is a little much-” he started, watching my face for any reaction. His voice was low and soft, as it usually is when he is about to grovel. “I guess I’m just used to freshmen girls squealing about Mr. Darcy and writing about Elizabeth…now that I think about it, you remind me of persistent protagonist herself…” he stopped, and ran a hand through his rust-colored, cropped curls as soon as he blurted out that sideways insult. I didn't say a single word, just allowed to him take a breath- I wasn't sure whether to be offended or take it as a compliment. I knew that he’d continue rambling apologies in a moment, as he always did. It was honestly quite cute. Tom could go from being a fierce, scary TA to a sensitive golden retriever pleading for forgiveness in a few moments. But he didn't continue his apologies. He continued staring at me, wheels turning in his head. Finally, something snapped- I could see it in his face.

  
“Darling,” he whispered softly. I had to catch my jaw from dropping. _What did he just call me?_ He continued searching my face for a reaction, hoping I’d say something to his term of endearment. My eyes must have betrayed me, revealing my shock, because he slowly got up from where he was sitting, his glance falling to the floor. _No no no no no…_

  
“Tom,” I called softly as he began to walk away, signaling the end of my silent treatment. He slowly walked back to his table, a cloud following him. What had snapped in him? This wasn't like him!   
I stood, following him over there. Tom had already busied himself with his Shakespeare. I could see his eyes scanning over a tattered copy of Hamlet. My mind began formulating all sorts of things I could discuss with him about Hamlet- the Prince himself, whether or not the ghost of his father was real, etc, but I stopped myself. I sat across from the Brit, and breathed in. I let the real question out.

  
“Why did you call me that?” I whimpered, and then proceeded to mentally kick myself for sounding so weak. His eyes were glued to the page.

  
“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, reading the next page, not even casting his glance up towards me. I chided myself. “Darling,” although an affectionate term in the United States (where I hailed from), was quite a commonality among the British culture. I just hadn't had time to digest this. Also, Tom had never called me “Darling” like that, so I was quite surprised.

  
“Nevermind. You know it takes us Yanks to get used to the lovely British jargon over here. I was just taken aback when you called me ‘Darling,’ that’s all,” I muttered, embarrassingly. He chuckled, allowing his cheeks to bloom a deep shade of red. He then quickly swallowed a gulp of tea and regained his composure, a neutral expression- devoid of any emotion- manifesting itself across his visage.

  
“Oh yeah- sorry about that. Maybe if you drank more tea, you’d be more accustomed to our -ahem- ‘lovely jargon’ as you so describe it. And try not to be so offended. Darling is a common term in our dialect. I meant nothing special,” he said in a weird, covered tone. I couldn’t tell if he was slamming me for not drinking tea, telling me if I wasn't special enough for the affectionate title of “Darling,” or if he was being sassy.

  
Either way, I stood up- I was not about to let some attractive graduate student think that he had the upper hand over me. Friends or not. I had other things to deal with. And the weather seemed to be clearing up.  
I made my way back over to my couch, gathered my things and finished my latte. As I began my exit towards the door, I stole one last glance towards Tom, who had is nose buried in the book. I took the brown bag in my hands and placed it in front of Tom. He gazed up at me in surprise.

  
“You obviously need the sweetness more than me Mr. Hiddleston. Enjoy it, _darling_ ,” I smirked, then turned on my heel, leaving the bloke confused as I sauntered right out of the cafe.


End file.
